


Unfinished Hannibal Fic

by trashformostthings



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: And didn't write and OUTLINE, And so there's really nothing here, But I liked how I wrote it, I don't remember where I was going with this bc I was DUMb, So it's coming here, Whether You Like It Or Not, Yes I'm a slut for Mads Mikkelson, You are too, this will never be finished, uhueheuheueh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2019-10-09
Packaged: 2020-11-28 06:42:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20962181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashformostthings/pseuds/trashformostthings
Summary: Will I ever continue/finish this? lmao prob no





	Unfinished Hannibal Fic

The waiting room was a bit smaller than I expected - but I didn't really know what I expected of this, exactly. Just knowing that seeing a therapist was a new thing to me would have explained it - I had always envisioned therapists to be more, say,  _ extravagant _ , especially when they were as wealthy as Dr. Lecter (or that was the idea I was projecting onto him, that he was wealthy. I have to remind myself it is none of my business what someone else's financial status is). It was cozy, sort of - it wasn't so small I felt unhappy and the light coming in from the small window helped (and with light curtains that I felt were on purpose, but perhaps that was simply me looking too much into these things). It has a few chairs and a place for a secretary. If Dr. Lecter even had one. Did he? There wasn't a computer or anything on the desk, so maybe it came with this building - the one he worked in? Was it detachable - could he sell it? Was there a market for detachable secretary desks?

I had been sitting down and staring at the desk thinking about the sentimentality of a detachable secretary desk when I heard the door to my right open, but I didn't immediately look to him - sort of on purpose, but sort of not really. I didn't turn my head even though I knew he was there and was waiting for me to get up but kept my head to the desk. Sort of thinking maybe he would think I think a lot, maybe cool that way, or something of the sort, like I was a 15-year-old of like, Tumblr. It was embarrassing, enough so that I got up and almost sat back down like I needed to re-do the whole start to get it right. He didn't smile but his face wasn't turned unpleasantly like he was confused or upset, and a part of me was sort of aware that he probably dealt with weirder people or patients with just the  _ strangest _ ticks. Mine wasn't all that outgoing - biting my lip (or nails, and the chipped nail polish I put on like an idiot showed proof) and cracking my knuckles. But were they really tics, or did I just not curb bad habits as I went about my teenage years? Dr. Lecter was still standing. He had said hello in a manner I can only describe as pleasant but his face was just so serious it felt like I was a child imposing upon his house. This was his house, his office. Maybe I should fake a phone call, get away - I'm sure he has better things to do than deal with someone like me. I smiled, that sort of smile that bubbles up in an unpleasant way, like I want this person to feel ok being around me and that I'm not a godawful person, a smile to impress and impose instead of greeting. It felt fake, and he welcomed me into his office.

It was very big, and tall, and the first thing I noticed was the furniture - don't get me wrong, it was nice furniture, but everything felt so paced and spaced, like each piece was a stroke on a canvas and he was trying to create a sort of rhythm for your eyes - couch on the far wall, desk, big desk with a light that looked very much for business, a business desk that looked odd because it was on a nice carpet instead of whatever usual businesses have. Two chairs opposite each other that made my heart race a little faster because god I knew what those were for and it made me feel so uncomfortable, having to face this strange intimidating unhappy-with-me man directly and tell him I'm a mild fuck up (if mild is the medicinal word for it). I kind of wished I didn't have to actually look him in the eye but that felt rude - he already had this all set up and by the looks of everything he seemed to want to be organized (I know I did) and me asking to say, sit on the chair and him at his desk or something wouldn't get rid of the fact he probably had to look at me during the session and look at my body language and manners to figure out just how shit of a fuck-up I was. I didn't want to sit down - this man reminded me greatly of all the men of my life and I for one did not want to piss him off. "Where should I sit, um, Dr. Lecter?" I asked, sort of pausing in the middle on accident but recognizing it a second after and feeling like I might have done it on purpose. I'm not trying to trick him for anything. Why am I like this?

"The chair, please." He motioned to the chair farthest from the door and I think I was a bit too hasty in walking to it, now that I had some sense of direction or an objective. I sat down and the leather sort of made a whoosh sound as I sat on it - I felt like it was too loud. Way too loud. Would he think I'm too fast or too eager or too heavy or too tired? Though I was hyper-aware of this man, who was to be my therapist, I really didn't want to burden him with me, to think I wasn't normal and then have to deal with me. It would be embarrassing. Oh, why did I allow myself to come here? I shouldn't be telling a stranger how I feel. I'm not going to impose upon him - only answer what he asked. I'm not going to embarrass myself. I'm not going to embarrass myself.

"Ms. Gullevard, how are you feeling?" His pitch changed a bit, became it bit breathy as he sat down on the chair, and I realized that this man had sat down so many times because he needed one hand to open the one button on his suit - a dark gray not quite black suit that was quite nice, but I really didn’t understand suits. That was a guy thing, although I thought they looked very nice. On anybody, of course. I don’t want to seem like I'm fetishizing suits and the people that wear them, especially the man in front of me now (god forbid Jesus) so I look into his face to distract me and trace the wrinkles on his face, staying away from the edges of his eyes or lips or nostrils lest I actually look at those and seem like a creep. I answer him. "I'm feeling alright. It's getting a bit chilly for me out there." I smiled, and immediately berate myself for telling him an opinion of mine that didn't affect him, and that he didn't even ask for that information. He just asked how I was to be nice to follow a social script that I hated playing every day but felt out of place and guilty if I didn't follow it line for line lest I hurt someone's feelings. He's just being nice - that's what therapists are supposed to be. People who have empathy or knowledge to help others.

"I see. Fall is coming in quite fast, isn't it?" he said offhandedly, still looking at me like I'm the only damn thing in the room. The curtains are crazy, a bold move but it actually kinda looks nice, and he has a million things everywhere like rugs and that statue and that ladder - holy shit a ladder for his books? this man had it set - a lot of stuff I wasn't too sure was for my comfort, seeing a nice room, or for his, to personalize it. Probably the second - he worked here after all. The latter. He sort of leaned back in a way that I first thought as casual, but now with his stare felt more attentive, a little too much attention from him at once for me. I did a quick smile again and nodded. "Yeah. Comin' in fast." I go to take a breath and realize I'm breathing, now a little angry at myself and manually. Manually breathing. Manually blinking. I felt even less in control of myself now, that I would have to focus on looking like I wasn't controlling my breathing and blinking. Jesus fucking Christ.

"I understand you may not feel comfortable with your surroundings, this is your first time in therapy," he said, and I * _ almost _ * looked him in the eye. I opted for the space between his eyebrows and above his eyes. Was I supposed to say something, confirm what he already knew? Of course, this was my first time. I didn't want to see one, ever. My problems were my own, I don't need to pay someone to tell me I'm fucked up. I knew I shouldn't be, but I was even more uncomfortable with him mentioning this. Normally people who needed therapy did it when they realized something was wrong - that was how it worked. I knew some of my online friends couldn't afford it or find the time or, like me, couldn't bring themselves to do it. But I had no excuse. I could afford it, I had a flexible schedule and I wasn't a wuss, to say. I just hated feeling guilty or pressured or vulnerable, and the last thing I need is to have some stranger know and keep both my secrets and my money. But that's a shitty excuse, isn't it? Dr. Lecture had shifted his whole body but the only real change was how his head was tilted. "Would you like a glass of water?"

I feel like I should but I shake my head, realize my mistake and then voice my answer - "No thank you." I really don't need it but I feel like maybe I veered from the social script he was reading - was I supposed to say yes? Was the actual therapy part of therapy supposed to be suspended until I was refreshed or something? I've never been to therapy before, and now I regret it as now I might've deviated from what he was used to doing. What am I supposed to say now? He's the therapist, and this is his office so maybe *he* should be the one talking, but this is *my* therapy so maybe I should start telling him my problems? Christ on a fucking stick.

"We'll start by talking about what you saw today on the way here," he stated and I was kind of taken aback by that because that idea never crossed my mind. Was this a normal part of therapy? "You may mention anything if it is people or places or events. You can tell me how you thought about them."

"Um, well." I started, and a part of me was trying to make him happy, I suppose, by telling him everything; another part of me was skeptical of such a specific order. "I would've taken the bus if I could, but I live somewhere between Pikesville and Mt Washington, so um, I saw a lot of trees - that's nice. I didn't see a lot of people walking on the sidewalk, and it made me think of long it would take for me to get downtown if I walked." I paused for a minute - I'm obviously not going to tell him the self-deprecating thoughts I had at any point, so I needed a moment to filter out what I was thinking and find an end to this story that didn’t make sense. He took that as a pause or something so he asked, "Do you think hypotheticals often?"

"Um, I guess." And I really didn't know. "It's just out of curiosity, I'm not actually planning to walk from the suburbs to here, um, not that I can't, not if I really tired." Way to fucking go, buddy. Could you keep your thoughts to yourself while *also* trying to make a good impression? Fucking hell.

"Tell me, what other hypothetical questions do you think of?" I wished I had something even vaguely interesting and normal to tell him. I could make something up, couldn’t I? But that would be lying to my therapist which is probably the biggest sin of all time. Could I be arrested for lying to my therapist as I would a cop or a banker about myself? He needs to know my identity. But was being a criminal really worth it? I made stuff up all the time and I never get caught. It’s just a lie about what I saw today. “Um, well on the drive here I was thinking about um, people. That every person I pass by has a whole life, just like me, and I’ll never really get to see all of it. That only very few can see a person grow like that. Um.” Was that too weird? He probably already thought I was a wreck, but not a philosophical nutjob? Was that philosophical? It was a thought.

“I see. Ms. Gullevard, I understand that this is your first time visiting a therapist. What brought you to the decision that you should seek therapy?” His eyes had some sort of gentle glint in it - he was thinking something I couldn’t see. I never had that good of a read on people, anyway, and why would I? I avoided social interactions like the plague.

“I’m not a hundred percent sure. But I knew I wasn’t satisfied living my life as it is.” And that was partly true, at least in the way I said it. I made it sound like I had to break free and become happier - I was truly just in fear of life in the shadows. I had ambitions, I wanted warm feelings of love and tenderness as I had received in the past. And I was scared that I would never get it because I was too afraid to try, too anxious to even think about approaching people. “I was recommended a list of therapists in the city and um, you were on it. And your name seemed nice.” I winced at the slip. Hannibal Lecter really did seem like an interesting name, and I had wondered a while of where such a name would have come from - all signs, from his accent and his face pointed to Europe. But I couldn’t tell. Still, an interesting name for a man who now though I based my medicinal trust in people who had PhDs and interesting names. “Not weird nice, like, um. Just cool. I’d never heard it before.” I needed to stop talking.


End file.
